


Inbox: (1)

by shireteapot



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, IM, Online Dating, Pre-Slash, What-If, alternate first case, alternate first meeting, exchangelock, online, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireteapot/pseuds/shireteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t think now’s a good time to be dating, do you?” God knows he can barely get out of bed in the mornings, has to stretch his army pension thin just to be able to eat.<br/>“Not everyone uses these sites to find romantic partners. You’d be surprised how many people are looking for new friends.”<br/>“I’ve got friends.” Ella’s eyebrow shoots up again, and John instantly knows he’s made a mistake.<br/>“Name one,” she says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inbox: (1)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the exchangelock 'what if?' prompt! The prompt I received was, 'What if Sherlock Holmes and John Watson met online first?' from firstdrafted. This was originally meant to be a oneshot leading up to A Study In Pink, but I had so much fun writing it that I decided to turn it into a three-part series, with an alternate first case for the boys. Hope this is something like what you were looking for, lovely!
> 
> As far as I'm aware, there isn't actually a dating site called madeinheaven.com. If there is and I've missed it, please let me know!
> 
> Any mistakes are entirely my own.

"You can’t be serious.” Oh, but Ella’s raised eyebrow and deadpan expression say otherwise. She’s serious alright, and if there’s one thing John’s learned about his therapist in the past few months, it’s that she doesn’t take kindly to him talking to her like she’s a lunatic. Which John does. Often.

 

Ella scribbles a sentence in the ledger balanced on her knee. His file, far thicker and more detailed than any of the others on the shelf. John suspects the words _fucking_ and _prick_ are in there somewhere. “It’d be good for you, John,” she says in that soft, sincere tone of hers, the one that somehow always manages to get him to do what she asks, no matter how hard he tries to resist. He snorts derisively, pointedly looking away from her – Ella’s got eyes to match her voice.

“I don’t think now’s a good time to be dating, do you?” God knows he can barely get out of bed in the mornings, has to stretch his army pension thin just to be able to eat. He has no problem with letting his date pay for dinner every now and then, though he always offers (never let anyone say chivalry is dead when it comes to John Watson). But there’s a fine line between being respectful and being a user.

“Not everyone uses these sites to find romantic partners. You’d be surprised how many people are looking for new friends.”

“I’ve got friends.” Ella’s eyebrow shoots up again, and John instantly knows he’s made a mistake.

“Name one,” she says.

 

John wants to swear under his breath. He clenches his jaw, darts the tip of his tongue out to wet his bottom lip as he racks his brain. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been popular at school – he was captain of the rugby team and had a lot of mates, though he never strayed far from his regular crowd: there was Mike, the quiet teacher-in-training, small and short-sighted but ultimately the friendliest bloke you could ever hope to meet. Steve, he was the wannabe anaesthesiologist and designated driver of the group (teetotal ever since he converted to Buddhism and became a human moral compass). And of course Jerry, who had a penchant for methamphetamines and wouldn’t know the cardiovascular system if it bit him on the arse, but whose skill as an aspiring neurologist was second to none. They were the misfits, those three, and John, for all his popularity among the male and female students of Barts, felt more at home in his flatshare with them than he’d ever felt before.

 

But then he’d enlisted and been shipped off to the middle east, and that was that. Not so much time for regular emails out there.

 

Friendships formed in the forces aren’t exactly reliable. There’s always the chance that you’ll get shot or blown up or receive some fatal injury in the field, and even if you don’t it’s still a transitory life. People come and go all the time. They die or get promoted or demoted or stationed elsewhere, or they retire early after one too many slip-ups, and eventually whole battalions are erased and replaced, one soldier at a time. The only lasting friend John had in the army was Bill Murray. They'd served all three of their tours together, watched the rest of their pals arrive and gradually disappear, and in the end Bill had sprinted across open ground for John Watson and carried him, delirious and bleeding and half-dead, off the battlefield. John got sent home with a busted shoulder and a stupid limp and left Bill behind in the dirt and dry heat of the Afghan desert. His turn to rotate out.

 

“John?” Ella is watching him carefully, pencil scratching in the margin of his file. Time to come back to earth. John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, folds his arms across his chest and answers,

“You?” He recognises the soft look that comes over Ella's face. It's something terribly close to pity.

“I'm your therapist, John,” she says gently. “Not your friend. You need some human interaction outside of this office. Some companionship. It'll help you, having someone to share things with.” The corner of John's mouth twitches. A desperate part of himself wants to smile, so ridiculous is her suggestion – who in their right mind would want to be friends with him, crippled, angry and haunted invalid that he is? But he can't say that out loud. Ella would have a field day and spend the next few sessions spouting some motivational bollocks about confidence and self-worth. God forbid he has to list his 'positive attributes' ever again.

 

Instead, John settles for tapping his fingertips nervously on the arm of his chair, and replies, “Nothing ever happens to me.”

 

XxX

 

At the end of their session, Ella scrawls and presents John with the web address of a popular new site, Made in Heaven dot com. John has heard of it; honestly, he’d be surprised if anyone hadn’t. Even in Afghanistan, a few of his (temporary) mates were heavily involved in the online dating scene, though personally John has never been tempted to try it. He prefers the in-the-flesh-where-there’s-a-better-chance-of-sex approach, himself.

 

Made in Heaven is the next generation of online matchmaking, if you believe the newspapers and several devoted users in Bomb Disposal. Rave reviews, a huge chunk of TV advertisement time and it became, literally overnight, _the_ social networking site among people of all ages. Find dates in the matches who rate high in romantic and sexual compatibility, and friends in the ones who don’t. Fool-proof. The whole thing sounds a little too good to be true, if you ask John. Not that anyone ever does.

 

He shoves the slip of paper into his pocket and stands, leaning heavily on his cane, to shake Ella’s hand, promising to see her next week.

 

XxX

 

John wakes suddenly nearly twelve hours later, alone in the dark and cold of his bedsit. It's not the violent thrashing of limbs that rouses him, nor is it the screaming; but the hard, painful thud as his body lands on the floor, thinly carpeted and unforgiving. Beside him, the bedside lamp topples over into his lap and he jolts, shoving the foreign object away as consciousness struggles to catch up with his rude awakening. Another nightmare. Always the same one; scorching sun and screams and blood and white-hot blinding pain so bright and sharp that he feels as though he'll lose his mind. His damp pyjamas cling to his skin, hair slicked down by cold, clammy sweat. Every intake of breathe is a sharp inhale, deep and dry and rasping inside his lungs before it shudders out again. Too fast. Too much.

 

The tenant of the bedsit next door is hammering against the wall. "Shut the fuck up!" comes the balding, middle-aged man's voice with perfect clarity. "Some of us are tryina sleep!" John cannot reply. His voice has deserted him. All he can do is breathe, gasp in lungful after lungful of cool, musty air, each one shallower and wetter and more difficult than the last – until he's no longer gasping, but sobbing, quiet and restrained.

 

XxX

 

**[Inbox: (1)]**

 

27/01/2009   05:33

From: madeinheaven@hotmail.com

To: johnhwatson@hotmail.co.uk

Dear **John** ,

 

Thanks for registering with us at madeinheaven.com! We look forward to helping you find true love using our state-of-the-art matchmaking service. Interact and chat with other members via instant-messaging, audio chat or webcam, play games, share photos, and much, much more. Rack up Spark Points to access our special Love Calculator and find out just how compatible you are!

Brand new BFFLs or perfect soulmates? Could your match made in heaven be just around the corner?

Please click the link below to confirm your account and get started.

http://www.madeinheaven.com/4579/getting_started

 

XxX

 

The weak light of dawn finds John sitting at his desk, wrapped up in his dressing gown and staring at the lone email in his inbox. The cup of tea set to one side is stone cold.

 

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s not that tech-savvy, never has been: every essay he’s ever submitted has been handwritten and submitted as a paper copy – and a good thing, too, as he’s painfully aware that his typing skills aren’t quite up to par. He’s never had a Myspace, a Facebook or a Twitter. Just the blog he created at Ella’s insistence and has never posted on, and an email account that’s sent none of the messages he’s been meaning to send to Harry since they last saw each other. John has enough internet knowledge to navigate Google search, and to find a decent source of wanking material when necessary, and that’s about it.

 

So he isn’t exactly prepared for the apparent complexity of Made In Heaven when he sucks in a breath – _might as well John it’s not like you’ve got anything to lose_ – and clicks the link at the bottom of the email.

 

The action opens a new window, in which appears the standard Made In Heaven background: pearlescent white with silver baroque borders and a matching explosion of sparkles that litter the screen. An elegant silver banner at the top of the page announces that this is, indeed, the ‘Create Your Profile’ section, and the rest of the page is taken up by a large array of boxes to by filled and questions to be answered. John wavers, forehead crinkling. This looks like it could be far more trouble than it’s worth.

 

He links his fingers in front of his mouth, pressing them against his lips.

 

He’s not in the right frame of mind for dating. Not really for existing either, but he shouldn’t tell Ella that. He has no friends in the city, not anymore, and he’s hardly a catch – he went off to Afghanistan fresh and young and came back grey and scarred and limping, with too many issues for even his therapist to pin down. But Ella is nothing if not persistent. She won’t let go of an idea until it’s been implemented, for better or worse, and if John doesn’t inflict the embarrassing ordeal of making a profile on himself, he’ll be hearing about it every session until he does. Best get it over with.

 

John's cursor has become a cluster of silver sparkles, and they quiver as he moves to select the first box: _username_. In the corner of his screen, a little ivory banner unfurls, and enthusiastically reminds him to keep his username **_flirty, fun, and fit for display_**. John grimaces, thinking of all the unimaginative and no doubt explicitly lewd reasons for the site to include that reminder. No **BiggusDickus** or **ThreeLeggedWonder** on here, then. Not that he's that type. He's also not the type to have a nickname, either; a name as short and common as 'John' doesn't exactly leave much to work with. Besides, he was always 'Watson' to everyone at school, with the exception of Mike, Steve and Jerry, who called him by his first name when they were feeling charitable, his middle name when they weren't, and when they were _drunk_ , well...

 

John's lips quirk upwards. Clicking to type, his fingers flit slowly over the keys of his laptop. Beside the box appear the words: **_username available_**. John can't help but smile, weakly, as he presses Enter to confirm his choice. The following boxes want to know his hair and eye colour, weight and height. Then his star sign, which John has to painstakingly consult Google for, and his birth year. He selects the correct date from a drop-down menu, wondering whether or not they really expect someone born in 2009 to be using their site. He discovers far more choices than he bargained for when he clicks to select his gender: there's the obvious **_male_** and **_female_** , but then there are other options that he's never even heard of, like **_agender_** , **_non-binary_** , and _**intersex**_. John frowns and hovers his cursor over the last one, surprised and a little bit concerned that he, as a medical professional, hasn't the faintest idea what these words mean. But the site seems to have anticipated this – his hovering prompts the arrival of another banner, bearing not only a definition of the word, but also a brief, three-sentence history of its implementation. John spends the next few minutes reading through the banners for each option to satisfy his curiosity, before finally selecting **_male_** and moving on.

 

Unfortunately for John, the question he has been preparing himself for the most is multiplied, and takes the form of the final two boxes. These are the ones that ask for his **_romantic_** and **_sexual_** orientations. The two have always been mutually exclusive to John, who has slept with his fair share of women and had Serious Feelings for a few of them, who steadfastly refuses to acknowledge two very specific periods of his life, and any incidents in between that may call his lifelong affirmations of his identity into question. He doesn't give himself the chance to think about it: he chooses **_heteroromantic_** and **_heterosexual_ ** respectively, and scrolls down before he has an opportunity to hesitate. Boxes finished, the questions that make up part two of creating his profile are answered easily enough. They're all about his interests, favourite pastimes; long walks on the beach, pina coladas, that sort of thing. Knowing what to write to make himself appeal to women isn't exactly rocket science. A little voice in the back of head wants to know what happened to _'not in the right frame of mind for dating'._ An even louder voice is reminding him, high and shrill, of clumsy, adrenaline-fuelled fumblings in the Afghan desert, and that a good bout of decent, perfunctory heterosexual sex is needed to make it all okay. Realign the scores, so to speak.

 

And with that, John resigns himself to looking for a date, and clicks the _Activate_ button at the bottom of the screen. His name joins the ever-changing newsfeed in the top left-hand corner, announcing that

 

_**ThreeContinents is now an active member!** _

 

Yet another banner – _Christ, do they ever end?_ – appears:

 

**_Well done for completing your profile – you're now one step closer to finding true love!_ **

John scoffs, and closes his laptop lid.

 

XxX

 

He logs back in after breakfast, finding himself with nothing better to do, unless he wants to stare at the wall in abject despair again. Not really in the mood, yet. Give it a few hours.

 

But he’s quickly torn from that line of thought by a flashing notification next to his profile picture.

 

 **[I** **nbox: (1)]**

 

He has a message.

 

John slumps back in his chair, exhaling heavily. _Well, fuck_. He hadn’t expected it to work that fast.

 

Clicking on the notification, a chat window opens up in another tab, and reveals the message waiting for him there:

 

 **ProfCupid** : John? John Watson?

 

John’s stomach does a funny kind of twist-somersault, and he frowns like he’s never frowned before. Who the fuck is **ProfCupid**? And how does he know his name?

 

XxX

 

 **ThreeContinents** : Mike?

 **ProfCupid** : I know, I've gotten fat

 **ThreeContinents** : Bloody hell, it's been ages

 **ThreeContinents** : Still with Paula?

 **ProfCupid** : Yep. She says hi by the way

 **ThreeContinents** : She knows you're on here?

 **ProfCupid** : Oh crikey, yeah. This is our joint account. Helping a colleague

 **ProfCupid** : So what happened? Thought you were abroad somewhere getting shot at?

 **ThreeContinents** : Got shot.

 **ThreeContinents** : Left shoulder

 **ThreeContinents** : Was pretty bad

 **ProfCupid** : Sorry to hear that, mate

 **ThreeContinents** : Me too

 **ProfCupid** : :(

 **ThreeContinents** : You still at Barts?

 **ProfCupid** : Teaching now. Clever kids. I hate em.

 **ProfCupid** : What about you? Never figured you for the online dating type

 **ThreeContinents** : Therapist reckons I could do with some 'companionship'. I tried to talk her out of it, I've already got a blog

 **ProfCupid** : Companionship eh?

 **ProfCupid** : I've got just the right person

 **ThreeContinents** : don't get any ideas, mike

 **ProfCupid** : spoilsport

 

XxX

 

 **FluffyKitty** : Um, Sherlock

 **FluffyKitty** : Why is there a riding crop in my morgue?

 **DeduceMe243** : Keep an eye on the body, I need to know what bruises form in the next 24 hours.

 **FluffyKitty** : Okay

 **FluffyKitty** : Listen, Sherlock

 **FluffyKitty** : I was wondering if maybe

 **DeduceMe243** : You've changed your profile picture. Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick earlier?

 **FluffyKitty** : Oh, I just refreshed it a bit when I got home, needed a new pic really :D

 **DeduceMe243** : Sorry, you were saying?

 **FluffyKitty** : I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?

 **FluffyKitty** : :-) :P

 **DeduceMe243** : Black, two sugars, please.

 **DeduceMe243** : It's about time you offered, a steady supply of caffeine will make working with your embarrassingly outdated lab equipment more tolerable.

 

**_[DeduceMe243 has left the conversation]_ **

 

 **FluffyKitty** : Okay.

 

XxX

 

**_[ProfCupid has added you to this conversation]_ **

**_[You are currently in conversation with ProfCupid and DeduceMe243]_ **

 

 **ProfCupid** : This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.

 **DeduceMe243** : Afghanistan or Iraq?

 **ThreeContinents** : Sorry?

 **ProfCupid** : My work here is done.

 

**_[ProfCupid has left the conversation]_ **

**DeduceMe243** : Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?

 **ThreeContinents** : Afghanistan.

 **ThreeContinents** : Sorry, how did you know?

 

**_[DeduceMe243 has added FluffyKitty to this conversation]_ **

**_[You are currently in conversation with DeduceMe243 and FluffyKitty]_ **

**DeduceMe243** : Molly, I need those results from the riding crop experiment emailed to me now.

 **FluffyKitty** : Okay

 **FluffyKitty** : :-)

 **DeduceMe243** : You’ve changed your profile picture again. What happened to the lipstick?

 **FluffyKitty** : It wasn’t working for me.

 **DeduceMe243** : Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.

 **DeduceMe243** : Results, please.

 **FluffyKitty** : Okay.

 

**_[FluffyKitty has left the conversation]_ **

 

 **DeduceMe243** : How do you feel about the violin?

 **ThreeContinents** : I’m sorry, what?

 **DeduceMe243** : I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.

 **DeduceMe243** : No, Mike didn’t tell me about you. I told him this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is introducing me to an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.

 **DeduceMe243** : Conclusion: you are, in fact, looking for a flatshare, and Mike believes that we would be compatible. I think you would be a satisfactory enough flatmate, though we would of course need to discuss your hideous wardrobe choices.

 **DeduceMe243** : I must also stress that I would not at any point be interested in hearing about the agonisingly mundane minutiae of your daily existence.

 **ThreeContinents** : Gee, thanks.

 **DeduceMe243** : Then it’s settled.

 **ThreeContinents** : Wait, hang on

 **DeduceMe243** : I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. I’m afraid I have a case to deal with first so a physical meeting is temporarily out of the question, but do go ahead and move yourself in. The address is 221B Baker Street.

 **ThreeContinents** : No way in hell

 **DeduceMe243** : Problem?

 **ThreeContinents** : We’ve only just met and we’re gonna move in together?

 **ThreeContinents** : We don’t know a thing about each other!

 **ThreeContinents** : How do I know you’re not an axe-wielding maniac?

 **DeduceMe243** : Statistically unlikely but I understand your concern.

 **DeduceMe243** : I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.

 **DeduceMe243** : That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?

 **ThreeContinents** : I

 **DeduceMe243** : The name’s Sherlock Holmes. I gather from your silence that you remain unconvinced as to my sanity. Further online correspondence will follow regarding your new living situation. I must collect my riding crop from the mortuary.

 

**_[DeduceMe243 has left the conversation]_ **


End file.
